is this. That boy may be, or may not be, the genius he thinks himself,
but he's got a brain that drives and torments him. He _thinks_! If you
will treat him as a counsellor and argue with him without sternness it
will pay you. The final decision will rest with you, but let him argue.
Don't choke him off and make a vassal of him instead of a son. His type
of brain can't be leashed."

The father sat moody and did not at once reply. Finally he shook himself
out of his reverie and repeated: "Argue with him? How can a man argue
with a boy that thinks he's a genius and a miracle-worker? Besides,
while he's gabbin' nonsense he can look at you with somethin' in his
eyes that makes you feel like a fool."

"Let me remind you of one thing." The young man from the outer world
spoke very quietly. "The chapters of history that stand out in boldest
relief are chapters dealing with men who _were_ miracle-workers, men who
had something in their eyes that dominated other men. I have been reared
close enough to the center of financial achievement to have seen
something of that. Perhaps that boy of yours is born with the stamp of
victory upon him--who knows? Given the chance, he may fulfill his own
visions. Both of your sons are dreamers, but the elder may be a doer of
dreams as well as a dreamer of dreams. He's an unquenchable flame. Don't
force him to smolder until he bursts into blaze. Give him a chance to
talk. Give him a safety-valve."

Tom Burton drew his brows close over perplexed and baffled eyes; eyes
full of foreboding and anxiety. His voice was full of bewilderment.
"What does it all mean?" he murmured half-aloud. "What's the cause of
all these voices an' protests where everything's been quiet an'
peaceable up to now? Why ain't we never heard nothin' about all this